


The Wallpaper Goes or I Do Affair

by aces



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Synthetic drugs are THRUSH’s answer to “aliens made them do it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wallpaper Goes or I Do Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



> Prompted by [this image](http://pics.livejournal.com/wishfulaces/pic/000k6y5q/g18).

“I think we’ve found the place,” Napoleon said, looking up and down the hallway of anonymous doors in a Greenwich Village apartment building.

“It certainly sounds like it,” Illya agreed with a raised eyebrow as he listened to the music pounding from within. He and Napoleon looked at each other, silently agreeing that Napoleon should knock.

“Come on in!” a young woman’s voice called. Napoleon glanced back at his partner. Illya shrugged.

“We’re invited,” he said.

“So was the fly, by the spider,” Napoleon pointed out.

Illya leant against the wall next to the door and shrugged one shoulder again. “Our contact requested that we meet him here, at a party. It could conceivably be a trap, and all we shall find behind that door are an unlikely number of THRUSH agents set upon capturing and torturing us for all the secrets we hold about U.N.C.L.E. operations, but the only way we’ll find out is if we open the door.”

Napoleon blinked at his partner. Illya almost, but not quite, smiled. Napoleon sighed and opened the door.

He immediately wished he hadn’t.

The music, already pounding through the walls, assaulted his ears. He wasn’t really very fond of what was currently considered popular music. He also really wasn’t very fond of the décor currently assaulting his eyes.

The wallpaper, or paint, or whatever it was, was orange and purple, a sort of tie-dyed effect. The furniture scattered about, some of it occupied by Hip Young Things laughing and swaying and drinking, was mostly red and plastic. There was a bar setup in one corner, the record player in another. White faux-fur rugs on the floor, on which other Hip Young Things were dancing. There was probably more to the room, but Napoleon didn’t really want to look.

“I think my eyes are burning,” he said conversationally.

“I rather like it.” Illya sounded perversely amused from behind him.

“You have lived too long among sterile grey industrial architecture,” Napoleon said with a slight sneer of disdain. “You like anything with color.”

“You simply must learn to keep up with the times, Napoleon,” said Illya. He slipped past the other agent into the apartment. He glanced back. “Coming? I’m fairly sure we won’t run into an unlikely number of THRUSH agents in here. And if we did, I’m even more sure we’d be able to dance circles around them.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the mistrustful one?” Napoleon muttered. He cautiously stepped into the room. “How or why anybody would need to drink—or smoke,” he added, noticing a very large and ornate bong in another corner, surrounded by a small and highly groovy group, “when they’re already having a psychedelic experience by simply being here, is beyond me.”

Illya patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll go to the back of the apartment and work my way forward,” he said. “Why don’t you start in this room and see if you can spot our defecting feathered friend?”

“You think I’ll be able to see him past the wallpaper?”

“You have highly developed observational skills,” Illya told him. “I’ve read it in your file.”

And with that, he melted into the crowd.

“Typical,” Napoleon said to nobody in particular. “One good glimpse of modern imperial Western decadence at its worst, and he _likes_ it.”

*

Eventually that night—after a rather trying capture for Illya and the defecting THRUSH agent they’d been assigned to meet at the party; a rescue attempt by Napoleon that was thwarted and ended with Illya having to escape and rescue both the defector and his partner; and an encounter with a new synthetic THRUSH drug that left Napoleon’s libido in a precarious state of control—the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were able to deliver their feathered cargo safely to Headquarters. Napoleon was checked out in Medical, told the drug would wear off by the morning and he was more than capable of taking care of its effects in the meantime (the personnel in Medical sometimes had a perverse and unusually cruel sense of humor; Napoleon often thought that was why they ended up in Medical, only a stunted sense of justice and honor stopping them from taking the next step and joining THRUSH’s medical division), and finally released to the tender care of his partner.

Illya drove him back to his apartment. It was all Napoleon could do to stay in his own skin until they got there.

Illya unlocked the apartment door with the spare key he kept, Napoleon’s hand on his shoulder, needing to touch his partner even as he also needed to keep some decorum until they were inside. Illya led him in, and Napoleon closed the door behind him, leaning against it. A large part of him was thoroughly exhausted after their long night. Sadly, a more pressing part of his anatomy was wide awake and demanding attention.

He wrapped his arms around Illya. “Remind me never again to accept assignments involving defecting THRUSH agents and parties of Hip Young Things,” he murmured as he started nuzzling Illya’s ear. Illya’s skin was cool and smooth, and sparks were shooting down Napoleon’s nervous system from everywhere his skin touched the other man’s.

“I think you should look upon it as a learning opportunity,” Illya said, a certain sly lilt to his voice that set alarm bells ringing in Napoleon’s head even as that other part of his anatomy sat up even more and took notice. _Cunning Illya_ , Napoleon thought, and then stopped thinking for a moment. And possibly breathing.

“Learning opportunity?” he asked eventually, his mouth drifting down Illya’s neck with a restraint he felt his partner should appreciate more.

“Oh yes.” Illya sounded positively _cheerful_ , but Napoleon was not particularly capable of thinking very clearly at the moment and so could not foresee the trap his partner was setting him. “You should have been taking pictures. It’s time you redecorated.”

Napoleon actually pulled back from his partner. “ _Redecorate_?” he said with delicate incredulity.

Illya nodded, his pale eyes wide and innocent. “Just think what you could do with this place,” he said, slipping nimbly out of Napoleon’s grasp and gesturing around the surprisingly spacious living room of Napoleon’s apartment. “I think—I think plaid for the walls, don’t you?”

“Illya.” Napoleon bore down on his partner.

“Or perhaps some other pattern.” Illya skipped away from the other man to study the wall by the kitchen more closely. “A series of red and purple inset boxes? I saw that in the back bedroom, you didn’t make it that far before all hell—”

Napoleon shut him up as effectively as he could by kissing him.

“Mmm.” Napoleon pulled back a little, in order to give them both the chance to breathe. Illya was smiling a little, just a little.

“Might I suggest we put this conversation on hold until I can properly participate in it? I feel at a distinct disadvantage at the moment,” Napoleon said. He nodded his head toward the bedroom. “And might I suggest we finish a different conversation before I have to give in to drastic measures?”

Illya smoothed down his partner’s suit jacket lapels. “That would never do,” he agreed, and he gave Napoleon another sly, sideways look and smile. “Perhaps I can offer suggestions for redecorating the bedroom,” he said. “Just as a mild diversion, in case you need one.”

“That, my dear Illya,” Napoleon said, taking his partner’s hand and tugging him along, “will most assuredly not be necessary.”

Later, during a climactic moment, Napoleon could have sworn he heard Illya say, “Groovy.” But he wasn’t about to remark upon it.


End file.
